don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s pretty . . . weird.”
He laughed shortly. “I figured as much. Here.” He extended his compact little hand. “Brought you something.”
It was a McDonald’s Happy Meal.
“Jesus,” I breathed gratefully.
“All yours,” Pfieffer said. “I figured the food had to be killing you in here.”
“It’s awful,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Pfieffer. “I know. Eat up.”
I wolfed down the hamburger and French fries, then ate the apple pie in two bites. I swear, it was the best-tasting food I’d ever had in my entire goddamn life.
“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed, as I realized my coach had watched me tear into the food like a starving coyote.
“No problem,” he said. “Hey, give me that box. Can’t have people saying I give one of the football kids special treatment, you know.”
I crumpled up the greasy paper, placed it carefully inside the box, and handed it to my coach. He accepted it and turned around to go, but stopped before his hand turned the knob.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.” He looked grim.
“What?” I said.
“Jesse, you made Parade.”
“Really?”
I felt myself break out into a real smile for the first time in over a month. “Coach, are you serious?”
“You’re an All-American, Jess. It came out a couple of weeks ago. I just thought you’d like to know.”
“Wow,” I said. But there was something more. I could tell by the way he was staring at me. “That’s great. Why are you looking so down?”
“They came, Jesse. They came and went.”
“Who did?”
“The coaches,” Pfieffer said slowly.
My lips tightened.
“When the season was over, they all were calling. We had requests from all over to see you. Stoudemire had OSU in his office. Kansas and Nebraska sent their people, too.”
“What happened,” I mumbled, already guessing the story.
“We had to tell them the truth, Jesse. There was no way around it.” He shook his head. “I’m real sorry, son. I know you would have done a great job at any of those schools.”
“They don’t want me anymore?” I asked, unwilling to believe my own ears. “Just because I’m in here?”
Pfieffer looked pained. “They withdrew their scholarship offers.”
I was stunned into silence.
He rotated the fast-food box in his hands, carefully. “We’ll figure out something for you. Meanwhile, I want you to do the rest of your time like a man.” He looked at me hard. “Do you hear me? No more fights. No more hardheaded shit.”
I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat. “Sure thing, Coach. Thanks for the Happy Meal.”
For the remainder of my time in isolation, I went over Pfieffer’s words in my head a hundred times. Slowly it sunk in: I wasn’t goingto be playing big-time football, after all. I wasn’t going to escape to another part of the country, to an Iowa cornfield or a rainy Pittsburgh steelyard, or any of that. It all had been just a fake little dream. I shook my head. I should have known better.
A six-week tail remained on my sentence after I got out of the tank, and there was little choice but to serve it. For the remainder of my time at the California Youth Authority, I composed myself to be a model inmate. I spoke rarely, and when I did, I didn’t cause any trouble. When Zuccolotto made his rounds, I didn’t give him any eye contact.
“James,” Johnny Pinece whispered. “I hear Zuke wants another shot at you.”
I shook my head. Just wasn’t going to happen.
Christmas came when I was in there. I remember lying in my bed during the day, feeling lonely and tired. A religious group came and handed out oversized candy bars. I chewed mine slowly, ruminating. Savoring every little piece of nougat.
I asked for more responsibility. I was given a job: floor polisher. Twice a day, I’d wheel the big silver machine into the middle of the mess hall by its plastic handlebars. Unwinding the long, blue electrical cord from around
He laughed shortly. “I figured as much. Here.” He extended his compact little hand. “Brought you something.”
It was a McDonald’s Happy Meal.
“Jesus,” I breathed gratefully.
“All yours,” Pfieffer said. “I figured the food had to be killing you in here.”
“It’s awful,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Pfieffer. “I know. Eat up.”
I wolfed down the hamburger and French fries, then ate the apple pie in two bites. I swear, it was the best-tasting food I’d ever had in my entire goddamn life.
“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed, as I realized my coach had watched me tear into the food like a starving coyote.
“No problem,” he said. “Hey, give me that box. Can’t have people saying I give one of the football kids special treatment, you know.”
I crumpled up the greasy paper, placed it carefully inside the box, and handed it to my coach. He accepted it and turned around to go, but stopped before his hand turned the knob.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.” He looked grim.
“What?” I said.
“Jesse, you made Parade.”
“Really?”
I felt myself break out into a real smile for the first time in over a month. “Coach, are you serious?”
“You’re an All-American, Jess. It came out a couple of weeks ago. I just thought you’d like to know.”
“Wow,” I said. But there was something more. I could tell by the way he was staring at me. “That’s great. Why are you looking so down?”
“They came, Jesse. They came and went.”
“Who did?”
“The coaches,” Pfieffer said slowly.
My lips tightened.
“When the season was over, they all were calling. We had requests from all over to see you. Stoudemire had OSU in his office. Kansas and Nebraska sent their people, too.”
“What happened,” I mumbled, already guessing the story.
“We had to tell them the truth, Jesse. There was no way around it.” He shook his head. “I’m real sorry, son. I know you would have done a great job at any of those schools.”
“They don’t want me anymore?” I asked, unwilling to believe my own ears. “Just because I’m in here?”
Pfieffer looked pained. “They withdrew their scholarship offers.”
I was stunned into silence.
He rotated the fast-food box in his hands, carefully. “We’ll figure out something for you. Meanwhile, I want you to do the rest of your time like a man.” He looked at me hard. “Do you hear me? No more fights. No more hardheaded shit.”
I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat. “Sure thing, Coach. Thanks for the Happy Meal.”
For the remainder of my time in isolation, I went over Pfieffer’s words in my head a hundred times. Slowly it sunk in: I wasn’t goingto be playing big-time football, after all. I wasn’t going to escape to another part of the country, to an Iowa cornfield or a rainy Pittsburgh steelyard, or any of that. It all had been just a fake little dream. I shook my head. I should have known better.
A six-week tail remained on my sentence after I got out of the tank, and there was little choice but to serve it. For the remainder of my time at the California Youth Authority, I composed myself to be a model inmate. I spoke rarely, and when I did, I didn’t cause any trouble. When Zuccolotto made his rounds, I didn’t give him any eye contact.
“James,” Johnny Pinece whispered. “I hear Zuke wants another shot at you.”
I shook my head. Just wasn’t going to happen.
Christmas came when I was in there. I remember lying in my bed during the day, feeling lonely and tired. A religious group came and handed out oversized candy bars. I chewed mine slowly, ruminating. Savoring every little piece of nougat.
I asked for more responsibility. I was given a job: floor polisher. Twice a day, I’d wheel the big silver machine into the middle of the mess hall by its plastic handlebars. Unwinding the long, blue electrical cord from around
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